Running On Ice
by flick-meyer
Summary: After a succession of rough days, Stephanie begins to think it's finally time to bow out of the bounty-hunting business. Can a particular someone change her mind? *Chapter Four, Wash Away - Steph's feeling guilty*
1. Sunrays And Saturdays

**Hello lovely readers!**

**Running On Ice is my first attempt at actually publishing something here on FF Net. The aim of the first couple of chapters is to set the scene/mood, if you like. The drama/fluff/events will start happening in the second or third chapter. This is a Babefic all the way, but Cupcakes, fear not. I shan't be bashing Morelli _too_ heavily!**

**I don't own any of the characters. They belong to the delightful Janet Evanovich. Although I do, coincidentally, own a half-Cuban boyfriend. Does that count?!**

**Oh, and all the titles used throughout are taken from Vertical Horizon's album, 'Running On Ice'. I don't own that either. Damn.  
**

**Running On Ice - ****Chapter One: Sunrays And Saturdays.  
**

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"But you're a girl!"

That was the immortal line. The phrase that will always be known as the reason why I, Stephanie Plum, sucker-punched a 6ft 2", 285lb convicted car thief onto the hood of a 1953 Buick. For some reason, it had been 'pick on Stephanie' day, from the early-morning voicemail message from my mother, to the moronic skip whose face I had pinned to the heated metal of my uncle's car. Add to that a chauvinistic cop and a confusing Cuban, and I had the recipe for a crap cake of a day. The idiot currently yelling something about police brutality had been the icing on the top.

"I'm not a cop, dumbass."

With that, I hauled Jerry Resnicki - Big J to his friends – up by the back of his Giants jersey, walked him round the side of Big Blue and shoved him into the back seat. I didn't even bother belting him up. I just wanted to get to the cop shop, get my receipt and go home. The thought of taking a hot shower, eating something remotely edible and then sleeping for eight hours sounded very good to me at this point. Considering I'd been on my feet since 7am, looking for Big J, and had driven over an hour out of Trenton to pick him up from a sports bar, I definitely deserved it. I slipped into the driver's seat, fired up the powder-blue lunchbox and set off back towards Trenton PD.

~*~*~*~*~

By the time I got back to the bonds office, it was rolling on 10pm. Connie would be waiting behind her desk for me, ready to take the body receipt and write my check. I slumped through the front door to find her looking at me through amused eyes. My clothes may have been a little ruffled, and my hair probably looked like I'd stuck my finger in a socket, but I didn't care. I just wanted to go home. I gave Connie my best 'don't ask' look and she held her hand out for the receipt. I fished it out of my back pocket and huffed down into the chair in front of her desk. She disappeared into the back room for a couple of minutes, returning with a check and a small white bottle. I shoved the check in the same back pocket, and rolled the bottle over in my hand to read the label: '_Tylenol'._

"Connie, you're an angel." I'm not even sure it had come out like that. I had the mother of all headaches and coherence has never been my strong point. As I moved to get up from the chair, a large, warm hand gently pushed me back down again. _Damn, I must be __tired;__ I didn't even __hear__ him come in._

I looked up at Ranger with heavy eyes. He handed me a plastic cup of water from the cooler in the foyer as I palmed two of the painkillers. I swallowed them down before looking back up at the gorgeous man standing in front of me. In one fluid motion, Ranger reached down, slipped his arm behind my back and pulled me up to my feet, my chest flush against his. With a nod and a slight smile to Connie, he guided me out the front door and onto the sidewalk. Once outside, Ranger grasped my hand and pulled me toward the Buick. Or so I thought. I had been too zonked to notice that he had led me to his Escalade, until he lifted me up and placed me down on the soft leather seat. He pressed a light kiss to my forehead before shutting the door and stalking round the car, into the driver's seat. I closed my eyes, letting my body sink into the seat, inhaling the scent of the buttery leather, Bulgari and something else. Something uniquely Ranger. Before I knew it, I was in the land of the living dead.

~*~*~*~*~

I hate rain. Not only because the humidity and moisture from it makes my hair look like it's gone three rounds with a bramble bush, but also because I've never been able to sleep when it's raining. The drumming sound of the water hitting the window has always woken me up. I'm sure the rain could bust me out of a coma, if need be. I had been tired enough to hibernate last night, but the rain wins every time. With my eyes still shut, I rolled over onto my right side, facing the window. Ranger must have put me into bed after driving me home. I was tempted to open my eyes, until I realized that the sunlight streaming in through the curtains put a quick halt to that plan._ Hold on, sunlight? I thought it was raining? Come to think of it, the window's on the wrong side of the bed. Huh?_

I was starting to wake up now, noticing that things were not as they should be. I didn't dare open my eyes, so I concentrated on what I could hear instead. Shaking the last remnants of sleep from my head, I realized that it wasn't raining. It was the shower running in the room next door. _OK__, definitely not in my apartment. My bathroom's across the hall. So where the heck am I?_

One quick sniff and a feel of the sheets around me gave me my answer. Seven. The heady scent of his shower gel and the feel of cool satin against my skin told me I was in Rangers bed, at Haywood. I opened my eyes and slid upright, bringing the sheets up to cover my chest. Completely unnecessary, considering that I actually had clothes on. I had always imagined that the next time I was in Rangers bed, I'd be wearing a lot less than girl boxers and a RangeMan tee.

"So did I, Babe. So did I." I snapped my head around, shaken out of my daydream, to see Ranger leaning against the bedroom doorframe, nothing but a small, black towel wrapped around his hips, and a glisten of water on his smooth skin. Holy crap. It should be illegal to look that good. I made eye contact, feeling slightly self-conscious at my next thought.

"Did you...undress me?" Ranger lifted himself away from the doorframe, and stalked over to me, his eyes darkening.

"I sure did, Babe." _Gulp. "_Don't worry, I only took off your jeans and shoes" he added, laughing slightly at the bewildered expression on my face. I had clearly decided to do my best guppy impression. I promptly closed my mouth and mentally cursed myself for not being awake during the undressing process. I vaguely recalled the previous night's car journey, as I had drifted in and out of consciousness.

"Why didn't you take me home?" I was curious. Very curious. Ranger dropped himself down to sit on the bed next to my legs, his towel looking dangerously loose.

"You told me once before that you had the best night's sleep in my bed. You were so tired last night, and Connie told me about your rough day, so I figured you deserved to sleep well. Besides, I'm taking you to breakfast, so it made more sense to have you here already."

Another holy crap moment. The Batman _does _do full sentences after all. Interesting. Verry interesting. The proverbial light bulb flicked on as his latter words registered in my mind.

"Breakfast?" I asked. What had I done to deserve a Ranger-induced wakeup call?

"Breakfast." That one word was more than enough for him. No explanation, just a confirmation.

----

**Reviews of all kinds are welcomed. Positive reviews make me smile, negative reviews inspire me to improve my writing. It's a win-win situation. Hope you liked the first chapter. Flick. **


	2. Candyman

**Hey everyone! Thank you so much for all of your kind words. I seriously was not expecting very many reviews at all. Within a couple of hours of the first chapter going live, my inbox was full of review notifications and story/author alerts etc. Thank you! **

**This chapter may be a little off. I have no idea if the FBI would consider using someone like Ranger to track down a wanted man, but hey, it's Ranger. Anything's possible right? I thought that was the point of fanfiction? **

**A special thank you goes out to Lyllyn, for pointing out something in the first chapter that I hadn't even thought of - thank you! **

**Once again, I unfortunately don't own any of the Janet Evanovich characters. Vincent Grimaldi and Dominic Cavello belong to James Patterson, I just borrowed the names. Angelina Sabatini and Anthony Tracchio are good friends of mine, so they belong to themselves! The title of this chapter comes from Vertical Horizon's album Running On Ice. Don't own that either. Well, I own a copy of it but you catch my drift...**

**Running On Ice - Chapter Two: Candyman.  
**

----

It's amazing how good food can make everything seem better. The fuzzy head from earlier had gone, I wasn't tired any more, and I could've sworn I heard birds chirping. All thanks to the stack of New York pancakes, bacon and coffee, currently occupying the tabletop in front of me. And I hadn't even taken a bite yet. If I hadn't have known better, I would've thought hell had frozen over. Ranger had actually taken me to the IHOP just off Parkway for breakfast. He had smiled a lot and engaged in small talk during the car ride. I'd also somehow persuaded him to order the apple-cinnamon waffles with syrup and whipped cream. Yep, something hinky was definitely going on here.

Ranger studied me intently as I happily dug into the little plate of heaven before me. The muscle twitching in his jaw was the only outward sign that he was amused by my eating habits. Stoic, corporate Ranger was back. It was time for the catch.

"Babe, I need your help. With a job." Ahh, there it was. Straight to the point, as always.

"Hold on," I replied. I dumped two packets of sugar into my coffee, stirred and slugged half of it down. "Okay, hit me." The corners of his mouth twitched, as if he were about to laugh at me, but he continued nonetheless.

"You remember Anthony Tracchio from a couple weeks back? Morelli's friend?"

Eugh. Creep. I wasn't entirely sure who that was aimed at: Tracchio or Morelli. Tony Tracchio had been a gangster, or so he liked to think. He was small-time, busted for carrying concealed, a common occurrence in New Jersey. It had turned out he was one of Morelli's poker buddies, so Joe had arranged for my cousin Vinnie to front the cash, and ensure Tracchio's freedom until his rendezvous with a judge. Like any self-respecting crook, Tony had hopped it as soon as he was free, thus missing said date with said judge. Of course, I'd been tasked with hauling his sorry ass to jail. But not before he'd tried to cop a feel while I waited to sign him over to the cops. I shuddered at the memory. As for Morelli? Don't ask. I'd finally decided enough was enough, and had called it off with him, permanently. No, seriously. Thanks to the ever-expanding Burg grapevine, my mother had heard about our break up before I was even halfway home from Morelli's place, and had left a lovely voicemail worrying about the state of my sanity.

"Yeah, I remember him. He skipped again? Didn't think a judge would bail him out if he bounced the last time?" By now, I had a rhythm going: pancake, bacon, pancake, bacon, coffee. Pancake, bacon, pancake, bacon, coffee. No way was I letting my breakfast get cold while Ranger barely touched his.

"Nope, he's been sorted. It's his brother-in-law's turn now, Vincent Grimaldi."

The knife and fork in my hand fell to my plate with an almighty clatter, and a few of the counter patrons turned in their seats for a gawk.

"_Vincent Grimaldi_ is Tracchio's brother-in-law? Are you actually kidding me?!" I practically squeaked. Grimaldi was big-time. _Bigger_ than big-time. Rumor had it that he was the main east coast peddler for La Cosa Nostra. Also known as? The Mafia. The Sicilian crime family, with well over 100 clans in operation in the US, each as scary as the next.

This time Ranger did laugh. "I thought you'd have heard of him."

"Heard of him? He's freaking famous in these parts. You even look at him the wrong way, and you get a one-way ticket to a six-foot hole in the Nevada desert! Hoooold on...what does RangeMan want with him? I assume it's RangeMan you're talking about?"

Ranger pushed his plate to one side, clasped his hands loosely on the table and leaned across. Instinctively, I leant forward, matching his pose, our faces just inches apart.

"Yes, it's RangeMan," he all but whispered, "but we're working with the Feds. One of the suits from the Newark field office remembered me from a job that, well, I can't really tell you about, but he came to me two days ago, asking if I could put a trace on this guy, bring him in if necessary. He's wanted in seven different states, and the Bureau's intel showed him leaving New York and entering Jersey three days ago."

"Riiiight, so what do you need me for? Trace him, nab him, sell him on. Game over." I leant back and eyed him suspiciously over the rim of my coffee cup, waiting for the catch. He didn't disappoint.

"It's not that easy, Babe. Grimaldi's nearly 50, he's got a world of experience on him. If any of my guys show up where he is, no matter how careful they are, he's gonna know something's wrong and the shit will hit the fan. He's been running from the Feds for years, he knows what to look for. And lets face it, we're not exactly able to blend into the background."

You don't need to tell me twice. Every single on of Ranger's Merry Men is a perfectly-toned, handsome demi-God. Even Santos. Of course, who could forget the Cuban Sex God himself? Certainly not me. I was surely drooling at this point. Ranger pushed on, seemingly unaware of my discomfort.

"Although, he won't be suspicious of a little blue-eyed brunette..." he added nonchalantly. If I hadn't been so alarmed at the prospect of being used to bait a Mafioso, I'd have chewed him out for calling me little.

"I'm not gonna like where this is going, am I?"

"The reward is one point six." Ranger leaned back and narrowed his eyes slightly, as if to emphasize the financial gain.

"Holy crap." I started making a mental note of all the things I could do with a share of 1.6 million dollars. New car, get Grandma Mazur a place of her own, shoes. Lots and lots of shoes. Wait a minute...

"Don't try and distract me with the money. Tell me what I'd have to do, _then_ I'll tell you if I'm in or not." I crossed my arms and glared at him, even though I was sure he could still see the dollar signs in my eyes.

"The Feds have been tracking him, unsuccessfully, for years. They've crossed states with him and had several near misses, but have never managed to actually get their hands on him. He's taken out several agents. He sets them up. Baits them, then leaves them hanging. Literally, in one case." He paused to take a sip of his coffee.

"There's a wedding taking place out in Belmar this weekend. Angelina Sabatini is marrying Dominic Cavello. The Feds are betting big bucks Grimaldi will be there."

Sabatini rang a few bells, but I couldn't come up with anything for Cavello.

"How do they figure that?"

"Because, nothing, not even the federal government, is going to make Vincent Grimaldi miss his closest niece's wedding."

----

**What do you think? What does Ranger have planned? Will Stephanie go ahead with it? Or will she just jack it all in now and call it quits? Will the Grimaldi capture be her last ever distraction? Let me know, as always! Flick. **


	3. Falling Down

I'm baaaaack! Sorry for such a long delay. My muse decided to escape out the front door so I've spent a little while running after it. I finally caught up, and this is what I came up with. It's mostly filler, really. One of those chapters deemed necessary for the following ones to make any sense whatsoever. Halfway through writing this, I had a little thought - who would I cast in a Stephanie Plum movie? Here's what I came up with: Steph (Rachel McAdams), Ranger (Victor Webster), Tank (Michael Duncan Clark), Morelli (Eddie Cibrian), Lula (Mo'Nique), Connie (Fran Drescher), Bobby (Shemar Moore), Diesel (Paul Walker) and that's as far as I got. What do you think? Who would your ideal cast consist of? Let me know :).

I'm not entirely sure if my FBI facts are correct, but hey, I'm winging it here.

Alrightie - I own nothing. Not mine. Nope. Never...damn.

Running On Ice - Chapter Three: Falling Down.

----

To be honest, I'd seen much worse outfits in my time, so the one I was currently wearing was not a huge deal. Standing in front of my full-length mirror, I took in the waitress uniform once more. It had been five days since I'd agreed to help RangeMan and the FBI with a major distraction job. Ranger and Tank had figured that posing as a member of the weddings' catering staff would be the easiest way to get me into the party. Mafia weddings were notoriously large, but also highly restrictive. No invite? No cake. So, instead of trying to pass myself off as a friend of the happy couple, I'd have a figurative 'access-all-areas' pass within the exclusive South Point Club in Belmar. Obviously, I wouldn't be the only one on the inside. Ranger had spent a solid couple of hours explaining the situation, and showing me the files of everyone involved. It turned out that the 'suit from New Jersey' was Special Agent Nick Oliva. A tall, dirty blonde man in his early thirties, Oliva had grown up in the projects of Newark, according to his file, before getting himself a law degree at Rutgers. He'd been assigned to the Bureau's C-10 unit straight out of Quantico, and had worked his way up from there. I suspected that, due to his background and a period spent in an 'unknown location', Oliva and Ranger were more than just acquainted, but I didn't push it. I'd gotten used to knowing more about Bob, than I did Ranger.

The plan of action was to play the ditzy waitress – break something, spill a couple drinks, that sort of thing. All conveniently near Grimaldi and his wise guys, once Ranger and C-10 had scoped him out. People like Vincent Grimaldi never travelled without backup, even to a family wedding. The inside team consisted of three FBI agents, and myself. Claire Hockin, a short woman with fire-red hair and grass-green eyes would play my fellow waitress. The difference between the two of us would be that Hockin would be carrying, and I wouldn't. Chances were I'd have to perform my 'accidental falling' trick on Grimaldi or possibly someone else, to check if _they_ were dressed, and the discovery that I was armed could blow the whole operation. Considering my weaponry-induced nerves, that was just fine by me.

Portraying one of two bartenders would be Manny Taylor, who looked like he belonged back in high school. Just under 6-feet tall, with shocking blue eyes and a mop of blonde curls, Taylor wouldn't have gone amiss in a High School Musical movie. His file stated he was 30, but his wealth of experience far exceeded his age. On the outside, he seemed to be a typical all-rounder: born and raised in California, studied at UCLA before joining the San Francisco Police Department and eventually being recruited by the FBI. Dig a little deeper and you'd find his case credentials and evaluation scores surprising. It looked like he'd used his boyish good looks and evident charm on more than one occasion.

Completing our team was, quite possibly, one of the hottest guys I think I'd ever seen. Standing at a little over 6ft, Damon Webb ticked all the right boxes – tall, dark, handsome, with a slight surfer-style hair cut and a brilliant white smile. Of course, he wasn't a patch on Ranger, but then again, he's a _god_, remember?

I grabbed my comb and ran it through my hair, attempting to create the 'sleek ponytail' required as part of the company's uniform, without much success. Saturday, it seemed, a flat iron would be needed. Deciding to call it a day and deal with my hair later, I stripped out of the uniform, returned it to the closet and slipped into the shower.

Feeling thoroughly refreshed, I slid back the curtain and reached for my towel from the rack on the wall. My hand gripped onto nothing. _Strange_, _I thought I put a towel on there earlier? _Stepping out of the shower, I crossed the bathroom to the door and pulled it open, with the intention of retrieving a towel from my bedroom. I shrieked and quickly slammed the door, leaning one hand against it.

"Not funny!" I called. "Give me my towel, Ranger!"

"Nah, I think I'll keep it."Even though I couldn't see him, I knew he was smirking. Bastard.

"I'm serious! What are you doing here anyway? Or did you just come to taunt me?" Frustration was creeping in now, as well as the cold.

Silence.

"I'm freezing my ass off in here! Towel, please!"

I heard Ranger sigh from behind the door, which opened just a crack. The towel dangled precariously from his hand, and I quickly snatched it and wrapped it around my body. Now, to evade Ranger and make it to the safety of my bedroom. And clothing.

I peeled the door open further and stuck my head out. Seeing nothing, I dashed across the hall and into my bedroom, slamming yet another door.

Before I even had a chance to get to my closet, I felt a strong arm wrap around my waist, and pull me into a hard, muscled chest. I should have known he hadn't left.

"Ranger!" I squealed.

"Babe." Damn him, standing there looking all sexy and smug. I knew I should be concentrating on my lack of clothing, but he had me well and truly distracted. His black t-shirt stretched across his body, clinging to his chest and arms. At that moment, the temperature in my bedroom soared. His eyes gazed dangerously into mine, and my hand travelled up his chest, neck and into his recently cut-short hair. Still long enough to run my hands through, thankfully. His hands caressed my back, stroking small circles up and down, sending shivers along my spine. That's when I regained some semblance of control.

"Uh, Ranger...I'm not, uh....wearing any, y'know, _clothes_" I stuttered, looking down. My brain and mouth didn't seem to want to work together.

"Why do you think I grabbed you?" His voice was husky in my ear, almost gravelly, causing my head to snap up. His eyes bore into mine, searching for something. Permission? He subconsciously licked his lips, and that was all it took. I pulled his head down and met his lips with my own in a fiery kiss. Suddenly, hands were everywhere. His neck, my back, his chest, my hips. Everywhere. Any shred of self-restraint left in me had long flown out of the window by now. I traced my hands down his chest and stomach, tugging at the hem of his shirt as I reached it. He complied, raising his arms so I could pull it off and throw it on the floor. Somewhere. By this point, my head was spinning with lust and my body was screaming for his. I knew the consequences of what we were about to do, but I also didn't care. I'd deal with those later. My brain had obviously said Sayonara and let my body take over.

Ranger brought his mouth to my ear, and began placing delicious kisses down my neck and onto my shoulder. Soft and gentle at first, biting and sucking as his reached my collarbone. I leaned my head back, giving him better access. I was completely lost in this man. Even though I couldn't form a coherent thought, the buzzing in my head grew louder and louder. I pulled Ranger closer, and kissed him with everything I had, hoping the noise would fade out. It only got louder. That's when I realized his phone was ringing. Shrieking, more like. With a dejected sigh, he removed his hands from where they now rested at the top of my towel, unclipped his cell phone and answered.

"Talk." Ranger still kept his eyes on me, giving me his version of an apologetic look.

"When? Give him to Sant....Dios!" I had manoeuvred myself behind him, returning the favour of kisses on his neck. It seemed I'd hit a particularly sensitive spot. He reached behind him, grabbed my wrist and pulled me around to his chest. That didn't stop me. I just carried on kissing the front of his neck. He smelled amazing, good enough to eat.

"Give him to Santos." He had managed to straighten himself up, blank face slammed down, in full-professional mode. It made me want him even more. I ran my tongue lightly up the side of his neck, my hands roaming over his stomach. His muscles tensed under me, as he tried to control himself. With a low growl deep in his throat, he grabbed both of my hands in his spare one, raised them above my head and walked me backwards to the closed door, pushing up against me. I felt vulnerable under his predatory gaze, and I could feel how much he wanted me. Heat radiated off him in waves, and his eyes flicked up and down my body, seemingly deciding that I would be his dinner tonight. Not that I was complaining...

"Shit. Alright, I'll be there in ten." Ranger snapped his phone shut and released my hands. I ran my hands down his arms, knowing exactly what was coming next.

"Babe, I'm sorry, I have to go." _There it is. _

After retrieving his shirt off my beside lamp and giving me one final heart-attack inducing kiss, he was gone. I ran my hands through my wet hair and sunk my back into the door. _What the heck did I nearly do? _Sure, I'd wanted it, but thinking about it now, I was almost glad for the interruption. Sensible Stephanie was returning.

I quickly towel dried off my hair, slipped into clean underwear and a set of sweats, before heading to the kitchen to find something to eat. Opening the fridge, I saw the biggest chocolate cake I think I'd ever seen, with a little note attached to the front.

_'Love, Ella.' _Man, I love that woman. Ranger must have brought it over earlier. After cutting myself a generous slice of cake and retrieving a fork from the drawer, I mooched into the living room and onto the couch. As I leaned forward to grab the TV remote, I noticed a small slip of white paper that had been pushed under my door.

Curious, I left the cake on the coffee table and ambled over to the door, expecting to see a message from one of my neighbours. Mr Ansen from just down the hall often left notes under the wrong doors. It wouldn't be the first time he'd mis-delivered. I picked up the paper and unfolded it, scanning over the writing. _Fan-freaking-tastic. Just what I need. _

_'Dearest Stephanie, _

_It has been far too long. I cannot wait to be reacquainted with you. I hope you like my gift._

_Your Friend.'  
_

_Yeah, right. If you were my friend, you wouldn't need to send me weird notes. Wait...gift?! _

As if on cue, there was a knock at my door, causing me to jump about three feet backwards. I peeped through the spy-hole, noticing a teenage boy dressed in white tennis shorts, a blue polo and a white baseball cap, standing in the hall with what looked to be a bouquet of deep red roses.

I tentatively opened the door, and was greeted by a toothy smile.

"Miss Plum?"

"Yes?"

"These are for you. Have a nice day." With that, he thrust the flowers into my hands, and was gone. Clearly, he had something better to do. Shutting and bolting the door, I took the flowers over to the kitchen counter, realising there was no card attached. Great. Now what was I supposed to do? Fill a vase and put the pretty stalker-roses on display? Call the cops? Eugh. No cops.

I retrieved my phone out of my purse on the couch and did the only thing I could think of. I called Ranger. I knew he wouldn't pick up, clearly he was busy, so I braced myself to leave a message. I'd never been very good at leaving voicemails. I'd always end up babbling or going off on a tangent.

After two rings, the customary greeting came.

"Yo." Oh shit. I'd mentally prepared a mini speech for the machine. Now what was I supposed to say?

"Babe?" Snapping out of my reverie, I realised I hadn't actually said anything.

"Yeah, uh, I have roses." Oh, yeah, good one, Plum.

"That's nice, Babe."

"Sorry, Ranger, I wasn't expecting you to pick up. Um, I don't want to bother you or anything, but I think I may have a new stalker. Just after you left there was a creepy note slipped under my door and a delivery of roses soon after that."

"I'll be there in ten." Dial tone.

Charming.

----

Oooh...stalker or genuine old friend? Lemme know!


	4. Wash Away

**Thank you for all your lovely reviews - you're too kind. Bit of a short one - another filler really. The takedown isn't supposed to be the main focus of the story, so I haven't put too much detail into it. I finally know where I'm going with this, so I will be updating regularly. Maybe a chapter a day if you're good! As always, I don't own any of the original characters, but I do own the ones you don't recognize. And a funky new pair of cowboy boots. Rawr. **

**Running On Ice, Chapter Four: Wash Away.**

After ascertaining that the flowers were not going to spontaneously combust, and didn't contain any kind of transmitter to bug my apartment with, I was finally allowed to put them in a vase of water and sit them on my coffee table. OK, they may have been from a potential crazy person, but they were beautiful flowers after all.

Ranger had gone into caveman mode, insisting I carry my personal GPS tracker in my pocket at all times, keep my gun, loaded, in my purse, and take on a 'Merry-Man' tail 24/7. The last one I'd flat-out refused. GPS and gun I could handle. Someone following me all the time? Not so much.

He'd reluctantly agreed. At least I would be carrying a loaded weapon. Sort of. I hadn't told him I'd be leaving the bullets in my cookie jar. Fully-loaded guns scare the bejesus out of me, safety catch or not. I had my stun gun and mace. I'd be just fine.

**Running On Ice**

As evil as he was, I had to give Vincent Grimaldi some credit. He was good. Very good. And a very difficult man to find. According to his file, he was around 6ft tall, with grey hair and in good health. All of the senior men at the Sabatini-Cavello wedding had not matched his description. They were either too tall, too short, too fat, or in the case of three men, in wheelchairs. By the end of the ceremony, Ranger had started to think the FBI's intel had been off. Perhaps Grimaldi hadn't come to the wedding? But why? According to Tracchio, who had sung like a canary at the prospect of a deal on his sentence, Angelina and Grimaldi were more like father and daughter, than uncle and niece.

Two hours into the reception party, a drunken conga line formed, Sabatini taking the lead. Taking a quick break, I stood behind the bar and watched in amusement. _Ahh, Italians sure know how to drink. _

The procession snaked all the way around the deck, passing all the juiced-up wise guys in tuxedos with purple shirts and their high-hairdo wives busting through their gowns. The bride sidled up to a table of old-timers, padrones in bolo ties sipping espresso, trading memories. One or two of the faces looked familiar, but I couldn't place them.

That's when the bride made her mistake.

She singled out one of the old men, leaned down, and kissed him on the cheek. The slightly balding man was in a wheelchair, hands on his lap. He looked feeble and out of it, as if he were recovering from an illness, or maybe a stroke. He had on thick black-rimmed glasses, no eyebrows, like Uncle Junior on _The Sopranos,_ just with hair.

My heart slammed to a stop. The file photo flashed through my mind. It was him! Sure, he'd lost a little hair and gained maybe 10 pounds or so, but it was definitely him. I turned around, faced the back bench and whispered into my microphone.

"Ranger. The old dude with the black glasses. They bride just gave him a kiss."

"Yeah." Ranger came back. He was inside a van in the parking lot watching pictures sent from cameras planted around the venue. "I got him. What's the problem?"

"No problem. _That's_ Vincent Grimaldi!"

**Running On Ice**

I think I went temporarily deaf at this point. All I could hear was yelling.

"This is a go!" from a voice I didn't recognize.

"White team. Move out." Ranger.

"Target is a balding male seated in a wheelchair at a table on the left-hand side of the deck. It's Grimaldi! He is to be treated as armed and likely to resist. Guys, I want him alive, but do what you have to do to protect yourselves." Nick Oliva barked into his mike. At this point, I wasn't sure if I should be doing anything. The briefing from the FBI concluded that I should just stay out of the way, but standing behind the bar, I felt useless.

As the bar was located by the back entrance of the club, I had a firsthand view of the next few minutes of action, straight through the near-empty hall and out into the parking lot.

Ranger and Oliva jumped out of the van and headed for the front entrance. Four more agents piled out and split, two taking the east side of the building, the other two taking the west. We had manpower – backup all over the place. Oliva had a Coast Guard cutter sitting a half a mile offshore, with an Apache helicopter that could be mobilized if necessary. Not even Vincent Grimaldi would turn his niece's wedding into a firefight, right?

_Wrong._

A couple of hoods in light blue tuxedos were taking a smoke break just past the deck, when they spotted the two agents coming from the east. One headed back up onto the deck, while the other blocked their approach. "Sorry, this is a private affair..."

One of the agents, who I now recognized as Tom Roach, from our earlier briefing, flashed his shield. "Now it's open to the public. _FBI."_

I zoomed back to the other wiseguy hurrying out to the wedding party. He ran up to the crippled old man in the wheelchair. I was right, it was definitely Grimaldi, but our cover was shot.

"We're blown!" I half-yelled, noticing that neither Roach nor anyone else had seen the interaction up on the deck. I could hear Oliva shouting instructions to the team, but could only pick up on my name.

"Plum. Don't move." _Great. I'll just stand here and get shot then, shall I?! _

Suddenly, Grimaldi jumped out of the wheelchair – now the healthiest guy in the world. I saw Taylor and Webb make their way toward him. Taylor took on Grimaldi, while Webb covered his goon.

"Grimaldi!" Taylor yelled and pulled out a gun from under his jacket. "_FBI!_" I heard a shot and watched Taylor go down. And stay down. Shit. Chaos erupted. Guests were scurrying around the deck, some shrieking, others ducking under tables. A few of the well-known mob bosses were hurrying toward the exits. I refocused on Grimaldi. He was hunched over, slinking through the crowd, still in disguise. He was making a path down the deck stairs, leading across the sand and into the club. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a flash of black, heard two gunshots, and Grimaldi's strangled cry.

"Target is down. Repeat, target is down. Situation clear." Ranger's smooth voice shook me back to the present. In all the commotion I hadn't stopped to find out where he was.

**Running On Ice **

The next couple of hours were a blur. Webb and Hockin had managed to evacuate all guests and the _real_ catering staff from the venue into the parking lot. The place was now swarming with FBI agents, EMT's and local police officers. Grimaldi had been stretchered into a waiting ambulance and taken straight to the nearest hospital, where he'd be under armed guard until he recovered. Ranger had shot him once in each knee. Nice. After all, Oliva said _alive_. He didn't say anything about _unharmed_.

I had taken off my shoes and apron, and let my hair out of the tight ponytail. Holding my shoes in one hand, I made my way down onto the beach, deciding to get out of the way until the authorities had finished doing their thing. Dropping onto the sand, I drew my knees up to my chest and just sat, listening to the steady flow of the waves. I was pretty far away from the club at this point, the commotion drowned out by the peaceful rhythm of the sea.

I sat relaxing like that for maybe five minutes, when I heard sniffling coming from behind me. Perched on top of the stone sea wall, sat Angelina and Dominic – a husband comforting his new wife on what should have been the happiest day of their life. Instead, the wedding was ruined, her uncle was probably in surgery by now and facing a lengthy spell in Rikers.

Their love for each other was clear. I could see Dominic talking to Angelina, rubbing his hands up and down her arms in an intimate, reassuring gesture. As I watched the couple, I couldn't help but feel guilty over the way things had turned out. The team and I all knew that things may not go so smoothly, but I don't think anyone had quite expected this. I only hoped they could understand why things had to be this way. Angelina's uncle was not a nice man, after all.

I turned round to look back out at the ocean, seeing how dark the sky had suddenly turned. It somehow seemed appropriate. Just this morning, two young people had begun their journey through life together, when the sun was high, casting it's light over everyone and everything. Now, as that new life had taken a dark turn, the weather had also changed, as if to reflect that. I watched the menacing clouds roll in, not noticing how the wind had picked up, blowing my hair back in a cold rush. I knew I couldn't stay on the beach for much longer, so I reached out for my shoes and moved to stand myself up. As I retrieved my shoes, a large dark hand came into my focus, palm pointed toward the sand. I took the offered hand, and allowed it to pull me to my feet. As soon as I was upright, I was pulled into a much-needed hug.

"It wasn't your fault, Babe. You did good today. Proud of you." Ranger murmured into my hair. I knew he was right. There wasn't anything I could've done to change the outcome, but I still felt bad for those now left to pick up the pieces.

"Are we done?" I asked in a timid voice, one I barely recognized as my own. I just wanted to go home and take a long, hot bath.

"Yeah, Babe, we're done. Why don't you come back to Haywood with me? We'll get some takeout, eat with the guys, then I'll take you home. Deal?"

"Sold."

We began walking back along the beach, hand in hand. I glanced over at Ranger, trying to read his mood. I really wanted to thank him for just being here, but something stopped me – I noticed the large reddish-purple cut along his cheekbone, at least three inches in length. It was bleeding slightly, running a slow trail of crimson down the side of his face. I stopped dead in my tracks, pulled my hand out of his, and ran it up to rest on his good cheek. I grabbed a napkin I'd tucked in the pocket of my skirt earlier, and dabbed at the wound.

"Babe?" The question in his voice confused me.

"You're bleeding, Ranger. That's a pretty nasty cut." I gave him a slightly scolding look, as if to say 'you should've had this looked at earlier'.

"What cut?" _Huh? _

"Uh, this big old one on your cheek! You seriously can't feel it?" I pulled the napkin back, showing him the blood-stained side as if to prove it really existed.

"I got caught in the face by one of Grimaldi's goons earlier, but I didn't think it left a mark. Guess I was wrong." He looked at me almost sheepishly. Ranger, sheepish? Pigs must be flying somewhere...

"Have the EMT's gone yet?" I asked, hoping they'd be able to stitch him up now. That way, he wouldn't have to wait until we got back to Haywood, to see Bobby. I knew they'd sent multiple ambulances. One for Taylor, one for Grimaldi and a couple more, just in case anyone else had been hurt. Considering how all the guests had now been allowed to leave, I assumed they'd called it clear and left too.

"Yeah. They left just after the Feds did. That reminds me – we have to meet with Oliva and the team tomorrow morning for a debriefing and to put our account of what happened on record. It's standard operating procedure for an investigation like this" Typical Ranger. All-business.

"We'll worry about that later. Right now, I wanna get you seen to." I was starting to worry a little. The area just under his left eye was starting to swell, and his entire cheekbone had flamed red. I couldn't believe this wasn't hurting him. Saying that, it sort of made sense. He'd probably suffered worse out in the field, especially after his run-in with the Colombians.

"Babe – I'm fine. Honestly." He sighed as he could see I wasn't about to budge. His well-being was not up for negotiation at this point. "I'll get Bobby to take a look when we get back. Okay?"

"Fine" I relented. Knowing Ranger, he'd insist on driving us back, and that just wasn't going to fly with me. I also knew he didn't like my driving, and wouldn't willingly give me his keys, so I had to think of something, and fast. I reached my arm around his waist, and looked up into his eyes. I pressed my lips to his, smiling as I felt his arms wrap around me, and begin to kiss me back. I slid my other hand down from his face, tucking the napkin back in my pocket, and snaked my arm around the other side of his waist. As the kiss deepened, I took advantage, by slipping my hand into the back pocket of his cargos and retrieving his keys.

**Let me know what you think. All reviews are welcome - good or bad. If there's anything you think should happen, or would like to see with Stranger (my little nickname for them), then drop me a comment! Flick.  
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